


Five times Napoleon was the little spoon (and one time Illya was)

by gothyringwald



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Anal Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Sharing Body Heat, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-07-10 08:33:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6975595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gothyringwald/pseuds/gothyringwald
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Exactly what it says on the lid!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five times Napoleon was the little spoon (and one time Illya was)

**Author's Note:**

> I've never written anything for this pairing, and I've never written a 5+1 so this should be interesting. It's a little (or so) OOC and a lot tropey.
> 
> I still feel so nervous posting fanfic! Eep. Enjoy (I hope). :)
> 
> Not sure if this needs any warnings - please let me know if it does! Also not sure which tags to use.

The first time it happens, Illya and Napoleon are in Oslo, posing as journalists for a small publication and staying in a cheap hotel so as to not blow their cover story. The spartan accommodation suits Illya but Napoleon is considerably less comfortable with the arrangement.

The American sighs heavily as he shifts in his bed. If he rolls one way, he encounters lumps, but if he rolls the other there's an uncomfortable sag. If he manages to position himself to avoid both then there's an icy draft blowing right in his face, and the blanket smells dusty so he can't pull it over his head. 

He stares wistfully over to where Illya is sleeping peacefully on the other side of the room. Illya's bed is neither lumpy nor sags, there is no draft and the blankets smell clean. He knows this from the few minutes he'd laid there blissfully before being unceremoniously kicked off by his Russian colleague, who had said that he needed the bed closer to the door. His tone had brooked no arguments so Napoleon had gone over to the lumpy-saggy-drafty bed with only a little grumbling. That was three days ago, and Napoleon has barely slept since.

After a few more restless moments, Napoleon decides to risk both life and limb and stumbles over to Illya's bed, hoping he can somehow negotiate a bed swap. Later he thinks it must have been sleep deprivation that caused him to wake the Russian, but in that moment, all he can think of is finally getting some sleep.

Napoleon leans over his sleeping colleague and shakes his shoulder. 'Peril, wake up.'

Illya bolts upright, eyes wide and head whipping around. When he only sees Napoleon standing sheepishly by his bed he frowns. 'What is it, Cowboy?'

'My bed is lumpy.'

Illya's eyebrows shoot up.

'It also sags. And there's a draft.'

At Illya's silence Napoleon continues, less assured and slightly more awake than he was when he thought this was a good idea.

'And the blanket smells dusty and I haven't slept since we've been here, so I thought...' Napoleon makes some sort of hand gesture and is about to ask if they can swap beds when Illya flops back with a sigh and opens the covers.

'Fine, get in. But be quick about it, it's cold.'

Napoleon just blinks, thinking he must have misheard. 'Um.'

'Are you getting in, or not?' Illya says, with no hint that there's anything strange with what he's proposing.

Napoleon glances back to his bed, thinks of another night where he likely won't sleep, and how that will affect their mission. He thinks about how there's no couch in their room and the floor is just floorboards. With a sigh, Napoleon realises the awkwardness is probably better than suffering no sleep and, after Illya's suggestion feels too guilty to coerce the other to swap beds, so he shrugs and gets in.

He rolls onto his side, facing away from Illya, hoping to make this situation a little less awkward. But then he feels the bed shift and suddenly there is a warm solid wall of body curled up behind him, and fingers just brushing his hip.

Napoleon's heart lurches in his chest. In his half-asleep state, he can almost admit that he'd thought about this before, being close to Illya like this, but those brief fantasies were always pushed to the back of his mind, only indulged in privately. And surely Illya hadn't meant anything by his suggestion.

'Peril, what are you doing?' Napoleon hisses, as he tries to shift away but there's nowhere to go except the floor.

'Spooning you,' Illya replies, sardonic as ever.

'Yes, I got that, but _why_?'

'Bed is too small for two grown men to sleep any other way,' Illya replies, shifting his arm as if he doesn't know where to put it.

'Oh', is Napoleon's only response. He can't really fault that logic but he would be lying if a not-so-small part of him was disappointed that it's merely a practical arrangement. 

Illya is still shifting his arm uncertainly so Napoleon grabs it and pulls it across his waist - he also, later, blames this on sleep deprivation - surprised that the Russian lets him. 

'Probably more comfortable for you, this way,' Napoleon says thickly, suddenly feeling the need to explain his action.

Illya just hums and murmurs, 'Now shut up and go to sleep, Cowboy,' into his neck.

So Napoleon does just that, thinking he can't remember the last time someone had held him. Probably when he was a young boy, his hazy mind supplies, being pulled into a deeper sleep than he's experienced in, well, years really.

In the morning, the Russian acts as though there was nothing out of the ordinary about the way he had held his fellow spy close all night, so Napoleon decides to pretend it never happened. 

But if he sometimes imagines Illya's arms around him as he's drifting off to sleep, no one needs to know. 

*

The second time it happens Napoleon wakes up with the worst headache in the history of humanity and little memory of the night before.

Mind still dazed with sleep and pain, he notices that there is an arm around his waist, its large hand splayed over his chest. There is a moment of panic when Napoleon recognises the hand, and arm, as belonging to Illya. If he were more awake, he may be concerned that he can identify the Russian's hand so easily. 

Heart thundering, he wonders why they're in the same bed and spooning. Again. Did he finally make a pass at Illya? Did Illya _accept_? 

Before his mind can wander too far into any kind of naked debauchery they may have engaged in, he notices the arm around him is clothed, as is what he can see of himself. Then he realises that he's wearing the same clothes he had on last night and fragments of memory flash across his mind. Most of them involve drinking large quantities of alcohol which would account for the headache.

Napoleon assumes he fell into bed fully clothed after several drinks too many, but still can't figure out how Illya got there, too. Did he crawl into bed with Illya, or did the Russian crawl into bed with him? Did they both fall in together, too drunk to care about sharing a bed for the second time?

Through all of this pondering, he stays calm on the outside, not wanting to move and wake his bed companion (or send a spike of pain shooting through his head). 

Even though he is comfortable – perhaps disturbingly so, all things considered - Napoleon reluctantly slides out of bed, noting that Illya must've been really drunk if he doesn't wake when Napoleon gets out. 

The Russian does make a small noise of protest as the bed dips that Napoleon most certainly does not find adorable. Napoleon scrubs his hand across his face, willing himself to move from where he seems to be stuck, gaze firm on his sleeping colleague.

Napoleon's heart flips when Illya sighs and hugs his pillow tight, which the American takes as his cue to turn and finally leave, moving towards the kitchen.

As Napoleon busies himself making coffee, the night before slowly comes into focus. After their latest mission debrief Napoleon and Illya had decided on a quiet night in, with Gaby opting for a night on the town with some friends from U.N.C.L.E. Their 'quiet night in' had presumably involved a lot of alcohol because Napoleon had noticed several empty bottles on the coffee table as he passed through to the kitchen. He remembers music ('Capitalist caterwauling!') and laughter ('Oh god, I can't breathe') and dancing ('Not enough vodka in the world for that, Cowboy!') but his memory gets fuzzy after drink number... _far_ too many and the next thing he remembers is waking up with Illya. He still does not know how they ended up in the same bed but decides to write the whole thing off as one of life's great mysteries.

Napoleon is just pouring his coffee when he hears rustling from the bedroom followed shortly by Illya shuffling out, eyes squinting against the light.

The other man makes no indication that he remembers sleeping with, but not _sleeping with_ , Napoleon again as he silently accepts the coffee the American offers him.

Any other day Napoleon would make a crack to dispel the quiet but with his own head pounding, he opts for a companionable silence, occasionally casting glances at the taller man who seems engrossed in drinking his coffee. Illya looks up and catches the other man's eye. When their gazes lock Napoleon's heart definitely doesn't skip a beat.

*

One moment Napoleon is walking slowly across the frozen lake to the cabin Illya and he have been staying in, the next there is a deafening crack and Napoleon is submerged in water colder than anything he's ever felt in his life. It feels like knives all over him. 

He is dimly aware of Illya yelling 'Solo!' above the roar of water in his ears and the next thing he knows, he's being hauled out of the water by strong hands.

Later, he will only remember snatches of what happens after this, like Illya carrying him gingerly across the remaining distance to the cabin, his clothes being stripped off by shaking hands, and Illya holding him close from behind, thick blankets surrounding them and the sound of a crackling fire nearby.

Illya's whispers are frantic, sometimes in English but mostly in Russian. Napoleon doesn't catch everything but he remembers an apology, Illya saying 'have to keep you warm, Cowboy' as the other man rubs his hand across Napoleon's naked chest.

He wants to comfort his colleague but between Illya's smooth voice and the warmth his body provides, the American cannot stay awake. He is pulled into a deep, dreamless sleep, vaguely aware that on any other occasion, Illya's hands on him like that would provoke quite a different reaction.

When Napoleon returns to consciousness he is briefly disoriented before the weight of Illya's arm around him, the pressure of the other man against his back, reminds him what had happened. Illya shifts behind him and Napoleon murmurs 'Illya?'

Illya releases a relieved sigh, which Napoleon feels warm against his neck. His voice trembles and his accent is thick, as he says 'Try not to nearly drown again, OK?'

'Had to let you return the favour, Peril.' The way Napoleon grasps at Illya's hand, pulling the other man impossibly closer to him, belies his casual words.

The Russian huffs out a laugh and presses his face to the back of Napoleon's neck. 'Any time, Cowboy. Any time.' 

*

Then there is the time Napoleon wakes up screaming, a strong hand on his shoulder and a soft voice murmuring 'Wake up, Cowboy'.

He looks up to see Illya leaning over him, strong brow furrowed. Napoleon sits up, heart still pounding hard, shrugging Illya's hand off his shoulder in the process.

Illya sits back a little as Napoleon sits up. 'Are you OK, Solo?'

Napoleon nods, sweeping a hand across his forehead to wipe the sweat away. 'Just a...bad dream.'

Illya nods, clearing his throat. His voice is low when he speaks. 'Well, it's all right now. You're awake. You're...safe.'

The words sound odd coming out of Illya's mouth, as though he had heard someone else comfort a friend before and stored the memory away should he ever have need of it to mimic. But they soothe Napoleon all the same, if only because it is Illya.

He notices that Illya has leaned closer while he was talking, can feel tension in the air between them as Illya's eyes flick to his mouth. Napoleon leans closer still, drawn in by Illya's heated gaze, but then the moment is broken and Illya looks away, muttering an apology.

The Russian shifts where he is sitting and clears his throat, asking 'Do you need anything? Maybe some water?'

Napoleon shakes his head. 'No, thank-you. But maybe...' he trails off, heat flooding to his cheeks before he steels himself and asks 'maybe you could stay with me? Please.'

The Russian nods, says 'of course, I'll get a chair', and stands from where he had been perched on Napoleon's bed just as Napoleon throws back the covers in invitation.

'Oh uh, sorry, I thought...' Napoleon trails off, cringing, as he gestures to the space next to him. 

Illya stops, blinks and moves toward the bed again. He hesitates by the edge for a moment and Napoleon is about to say something, tell Illya he doesn't have to stay after all, but then Illya is sliding in next to him, determined.

Silently, Napoleon rolls onto his side and Illya follows, pressed up behind him and arm sliding around his waist. He murmurs 'is this OK?' into Napoleon's shoulder who nods and says thickly 'yeah' and then 'thank-you'.

'You're welcome, Cowboy.'

Napoleon rests his hand over Illya's, which is laying on his chest, and if the other man can feel Napoleon's heart thundering under his palm, he doesn't say anything.

*

Tension has been building between Illya and Napoleon since they possibly, nearly kissed the night the Russian comforted his colleague after a nightmare. Napoleon is restless with it, taunts Illya more than usual and manages to irritate no fewer than six U.N.C.L.E. employees with his cantankerous mood.

It finally reaches its peak when they are holed up together in a safe house after a particularly arduous mission, waiting for the all clear from U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters to move out.

After three days in close quarters, the tension between them is palpable. Napoleon decides he must do something about it, confront Illya, but, before he can, the other man crowds him against the corner of the sofa and kisses him fiercely. Napoleon is stunned, freezes, but when Illya starts to pull away, muttering an apology, he grabs Illya's face in his hands, kissing him back.

Illya sinks his hand into Napoleon's hair, twists; with a brush of tongue against lips, Illya coaxes Napoleon's mouth open, their tongues meeting and sliding against each other. Napoleon sighs through his nose and shifts even closer to the other man.

After a few minutes Napoleon pulls away, breathless, and asks 'bedroom?' Illya nods, eyes sparkling in the low light.

As they stand, Illya wraps a strong arm around Napoleon's waist, pulling him tight against his body. Napoleon has never been so aware of their height difference as he is, now, head tipped back to kiss Illya properly. A small part of him feels he shouldn't find it so arousing, but he is too distracted by Illya's other hand, which grabs his ass, to pay it any mind.

While Illya isn't stronger than he is exactly, the Russian is strong enough that Napoleon can pretend, let himself be manhandled as they stumble towards the bedroom. They paw at each other's clothes with fumbling hands, a cliché of passion, only managing to get each other's shirts off before the back of Napoleon's knees hit the bed and he falls with an 'oof', bringing Illya down on top of him. 

Napoleon's breath catches as Illya looks down at him, blue eyes dark with lust. 'Hey.'

Illya smiles, 'Hi,' and then he is kissing Napoleon again, tongue pushing into his mouth, hot, wet and rough. 

Napoleon moans into the kiss and wraps his arms around the other man's back, pulling him closer, their naked chests bumping and sliding as they kiss and caress each other. He parts his legs a little allowing Illya to slide a thigh between them, the friction blissful, making Napoleon's head swim. He grabs at Illya's waist, and rocks his hips up against the other man. Illya's cock is hard against his own, skin hot under his fingers.

Illya pulls away from the kiss to rest his head against the side of Napoleon's, breath hot and damp against the other man's skin. 

'God, Cowboy,' Illya pulls back to look at Napoleon, 'I've wanted this for too long.' 

'Me too, Peril.' And then Illya is rocking against him again, mouthing along Napoleon's neck, making his blood thrum. The kisses trail down to his clavicle where the Russian bites, eliciting a groan from the other man. 

Illya suddenly grinds down, hard, and Napoleon whines, his own hips thrusting back up violently. Heat pools low in his belly, and he feels like he's getting close far too quickly. Gasping, he says 'Illya stop. I don't want to come in my pants.'

'Oh?' Illya nips at Napoleon's jaw. 'How do you want to come, then?' 

'With you inside me.'

Blue eyes darken and a wicked grin spreads across Illya's face. 'I think I can arrange that.' And then he's finally unzipping Napoleon's pants, pushing them down with his underwear and leaning back so the other man can kick them off before he does the same with his own.

Illya moves down the bed and settles himself between Napoleon's thighs, resting his head on the other man's hip, sighing. Napoleon settles one hand lightly in Illya's hair, the other clenched at his side. His breath is shaky, muscles in his legs and stomach trembling as Illya presses a kiss to his hip, and then the other man is moving, taking Napoleon into his mouth, hands curled around his thighs. 

Napoleon groans, eyes fluttering shut, at the wet hot sensation of Illya's mouth on him. He forces his eyes open again, so he can watch every glorious second, see Illya's gorgeous face as he sucks his cock. Illya looks up and their eyes meet, nearly tipping Napoleon over the edge. He puts a hand on Illya's shoulder and chokes out 'stop, please, I won't last'.

Illya pulls off but instead of moving back up the bed like Napoleon expected, he moves lower, nuzzling at Napoleon's balls then further back, hands on Napoleon's ass, spreading, tongue laving over the most intimate part of him. Tongue sharpened, Illya plunges into Napoleon, driving in and out, fucking him.

'Oh, that...that won't help me n-not to come, yet,' Napoleon's voice is breathy, stuttering. 

The Russian chuckles and finally pulls away with a kiss to Napoleon's thigh and sits back, chin shining with spit, gazing down at Napoleon with a look that makes his stomach flip.

Illya leans down and kisses him once more before reaching blindly to the bedside table for a jar of Vaseline, unscrewing the lid with shaking hands. He coats his fingers hastily and slides one into Napoleon, then another, pumping and twisting.

Napoleon bucks up as Illya's fingers nudge against his prostate. 'Fuck, Illya, I can't wait any more,' his breath is coming in harsh, short pants, 'We can take it slow next time - I just want you to fuck me. Now.'

'Next time?' Illya's voice is low, uncertain, and his fingers stop moving inside Napoleon, who wriggles against them as he answers 'Yeah, of course'.

Illya grins, blinding, and pulls his fingers out. He gives Napoleon's ass a light slap before telling him to roll onto his side.

Napoleon grins back and does as he's told. Illya moves Napoleon into a comfortable position and presses inside, slow and deliberate. Napoleon's breath catches and Illya brushes his lips just behind his ear. 'OK?'

'Yeah, it's good. It's...' Napoleon's mind blanks as Illya rolls his hips, ' _oh_. It's just...it's been a while.'

Illya hums in response and pulls out again so he can push back in, still slowly, delicious friction inside Napoleon.

They move together, Napoleon rolling his hips against Illya's leisurely pace, his head dropping back against Illya's shoulder, mouth open in ecstasy as Illya's cock nudges his prostate on each thrust.

Sex has never felt quite like this and he needs Illya to know, so he rasps out, 'Never been like this before. Never felt so good.'

'I know,' Illya presses a kiss to his shoulder. There is no arrogance in Illya's words; Napoleon can tell there is only the desire to express that he knows what Napoleon means.

Napoleon turns his head so he can kiss Illya, the angle awkward, their tongues meeting before their lips do. It is filthy and hot. He gasps, turns his head back to press into the pillow, at a particularly deep thrust.

'You feel so good, Napoleon, so hot,' Illya's words are punctuated by his thrusts, 'so _tight_.'

Napoleon can feel his orgasm building, so slowly, and reaches back to grab Illya's ass, trying to urge him on. 'Come on, Peril faster, _harder_ ,' but Illya only slows down, his pace teasing and Napoleon whines, wants to cry. ' _Please_ , Illya,' and his plea finally has the Russian fucking into him hard, hips snapping, small grunts in Napoleon's ear matching the rhythm.

The intense pleasure running through him from the speed and strength of Illya's cock moving inside him brings him closer and closer to his climax and when the Russian growls 'come for me, Napoleon' into his ear, he does. Harder than he has in a long time and without his dick even being touched. He clenches around Illya's cock, and then Illya is coming too, heat pulsing deep inside Napoleon. Illya collapses against his back, chest heaving, lips pressed to his neck in a lazy kiss.

They are sweaty and sticky but Illya holds him close. After a few blissful moments, Illya starts to pull away but Napoleon reaches for him, 'wait,' and Illya stops. 

'Are you OK?' Napoleon can hear the concern in the other man's voice and it makes him smile.

'Yeah, definitely, can we just...stay like this for a while?'

Illya releases a sigh, 'Of course we can,' and rests his cheek against Napoleon's, cuddling him close. Being with Illya like this is more than Napoleon ever thought he could have. He falls asleep with Illya still inside him, their clasped hands resting over Napoleon's heart.

*

When Napoleon gets home he finds Illya curled up on their bed, back towards him. Illya had temporarily moved in with him some months ago after his own apartment had been compromised in a mission. To anyone else's knowledge, Illya was staying in Napoleon's spare room, but he only ever slept in Napoleon's – their – bed. Napoleon's not sure when _his_ bed became _their_ bed – he thinks it was even before Illya had come to move in with him – but he can't think of it any other way, now.

'Rough day at the office, huh?' he says as he sinks down onto the bed beside Illya. The Russian just grunts and shrugs, non-committal, but Napoleon can see the tension in his shoulders.

Earlier that day, the KGB had contacted U.N.C.L.E. saying that they wanted Illya back with them. There had been yelling and panic for a while when they had both thought Illya would have to go. That was before Waverly had stepped in and said in no uncertain terms that Illya would not be going anywhere. Illya had still been shaken and Napoleon would be lying if he said he didn't feel the same.

Napoleon hopes that the fact that Illya is just lying there and the apartment isn't demolished is a sign of progress. Of course, the same can't be said about their office at U.N.C.L.E. headquarters but baby steps, he thinks.

Napoleon toes off his shoes, shrugs off his jacket and moves behind Illya, resting his hand on the other man's arm and hooking his chin over his shoulder. 'There you are,' he keeps his tone light, hopeful, but there is no response. Illya doesn't shrug him off, though, which is a good sign. He thinks.

'You know Waverly would never have let them take you back,' Napoleon reassures but again Illya just shrugs.

Napoleon worms his arm underneath Illya's, resting his hand over Illya's heart. 'You know _I_ would never let them take you back.' At this there is a sharp intake of breath from the other man, but nothing else so Napoleon continues, 'I'd sooner go on the run than let that happen.'

Napoleon is about to abandon the conversation, not wanting to push Illya if he really doesn't want to talk, but Illya turns his head slightly and says 'And what would we do on run?'

Warmth rushes through Napoleon at the sound of Illya's voice. 'Well, I've always thought you'd make a rather attractive fisherman.'

Illya snorts. 'Really?'

'Of course. Or,' Napoleon continues, 'we could be traditional and run away to join the circus.'

Now, Illya chuckles. 'You are ridiculous, Cowboy.'

Napoleon grins against Illya's shoulder. 'Yes, Peril, but you still love me.'

There is silence for a moment and Napoleon worries that maybe he said the wrong thing, overstepped, but then Illya says, voice soft, 'I do, Napoleon. I do.'

Napoleon drops a kiss on Illya's shoulder. 'And I love you too.'

Silence settles around them again, comfortable, the tension from earlier gone and Napoleon holds Illya tight against his chest, intent on never letting go.

**Author's Note:**

> So the file I wrote this in was first created on the 10th of February 2016. That's how slow of a writer I am! Yikes. Hope it isn't too close to anything else written since then.
> 
> I feel like this could have been better if I'd been more patient and spent more time editing but I just got to the point I didn't want to deal with it anymore! Which always happens. Anyway, I probably shouldn't down-talk my work so much. Another bad habit.
> 
> Also I have never written a sex scene before that was really difficult and awkward OMG. (I mean, I've read PLENTY of them but writing them really is a whole other thing. Yikes). Hope it was, you know, all right and the awkwardness I felt writing it doesn't show too much.
> 
> Aaaaaaand, I just realised I've been spelling 'Illya' wrong all this time. I've updated it now but, I mean, how embarrassing!


End file.
